


i hear you calling in the dead of night

by impcssibleyear



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9679472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impcssibleyear/pseuds/impcssibleyear
Summary: And on some level, perhaps he should’ve known the words that were about to leave her mouth. He was feeling a bit too confident, after all. Thinking that perhaps the tides were about turn in his favor. It’s been too quiet these past few days. Like a calm before a storm. The silence hangs heavily in the air before she finally speaks, her expression careful as she met Arthur’s eyes. Her face is saying something that he can’t quite place, a sympathy and a fear all woven into one look.“France has fallen to the Germans, sir. We’ve lost all contact with them.”Arthur’s out the door before she can even finish.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from bastille's 'overjoyed'. 
> 
> this is a loose interpretation of nazi germany defeating france. you can find this on tumblr at https://ofbonnefoy.tumblr.com/post/157162598115/
> 
> thanks for reading!

The clock on the wall ticks forward at a sluggish rate, a comforting and annoying cadence all at the same time. He picks his head up to glance at it for a few moments, surprised by how much time has passed, before he turns back to the paperwork in front of him. He could’ve used some tea, considering how much long he was going to need to put together the briefs that Churchill has asked for. Arthur sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, feel more than worse for wear. There was no turning a blind eye to it anymore - Germany was gaining in land and in speed, and it was only a matter of time before this came to the head that it needed to. The only problem was that it seemed like they were consistently one step ahead, and Britain was one step behind. 

Not anymore though, Arthur thought to himself as he picked the pen back up and continued to lay down what he believed to be the plans that would change the tides. They’d been through this once before, and if there was anything that he’d taken from that war, it was how to see this war to the end, once more. Intel, strategy, manpower - anything would be enough to get the Allied forces to the front lines and push the Germans back. He just needed to find out exactly what it was first

As he reached the end of the paper, he paused before initialing it, giving a glance at the calendar to date it.

_** June 22nd, 1940.  ** _

How strange. It’s the peak of summer, and it feels as drab and grey as the endless depths of winter. Arthur sighs, shuffling the papers together, before turning his attention back to another brief that had been given to him. His meeting with Churchill was scheduled for the morning, the two of them planning to speak about how to go on the offensive now that Germany was pushing nearer and nearer to their borders with every passing day. 

A frantic knock at the door pulls his attention away, causing him to look in the direction that it came from. He notices the young woman standing there, hair askew with a few strands tumbling out of the bun at the nape of her neck. Jacket thrown haphazardly over her shoulders, her chest is heaving, as if she’d been running. Strangely, though, her cheeks are void of all color, a grey ashy color the only thing to her complexion. He recognizes her vaguely, as if he’d seen her before - perhaps around Churchill’s office. With a furrow of his brows, he places his pen down and motions for her to enter. “Sir,” she says instead, shaking her head and using the door frame to steady herself. “Prime Minister Churchill has requested to see you immediately. It’s an emergency. You must come now.”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur doesn’t react. Trepidation washes over him in waves. His thoughts are already fracturing off into uneasy ideas of how this sentence could end, the hypotheticals and the what ifs. It was a time of war, after all - what could possibly constitute an emergency in a time like this? Or perhaps that was a question he didn’t want to know the answer to. Eventually, feeling as if he’s in slow motion, he pushes his chair back from the desk, adjusting his tie and standing there. “I should at least know what has happened to cause such distress before speaking to him” he questions uneasily.

And on some level, perhaps he should’ve known the words that were about to leave her mouth. He was feeling a bit too confident, after all. Thinking that perhaps the tides were about turn in his favor. It’s been too quiet these past few days. Like a calm before a storm. The silence hangs heavily in the air before she finally speaks, her expression careful as she met Arthur’s eyes. Her face is saying something that he can’t quite place, a sympathy and a fear all woven into one look.

“France has fallen to the Germans, sir. We’ve lost all contact with them.”  


Arthur’s out the door before she can even finish.

* * *

 

He slips into the city of Paris with great ease, an odd feat considering the landscape that he’s greeted with immediately. This is not the beautiful city that he’s been accustomed to - this is not the France he remembers. The harsh and guttural language of the German armies have overtaken the lilting sounds of French being spoken, the streets empty except for the troops collecting in them. It looks nothing like what he’d seen in this country before. There’s no joy, there’s no happiness, there’s nothing but a strange stench filling the air - one that he belatedly recognizes as the thick and heavy smell of gunpowder mixing with burnt flesh. The realization pushes him to a move a bit quicker, for if this is the way the land looks, it’s only going to be echoed in it’s people. 

_And in Francis_ , his thoughts remind him.

He immediately steels himself after that thought, wavering for only a moment before continuing to push on. It’s something that he’s been trying to keep himself from thinking about at all costs. Ever since the long conversation that he’d had with Churchill that night, he’s tried to keep his thoughts off of Francis and what his whereabouts were and if he was alright - and if he was still standing. Allowing his thoughts to linger for too long on the other, and he’ll find himself in the same despair that he was in the moments after the new broke. 

And though Arthur has had to go to lengths to try and stop himself from dwelling on that - refraining from letting his mind wander to all the possible what ifs that Francis could’ve been enduring - he knows in the end it’s what he has to do. If France has truly fallen, then distractions by his own emotions and fears wouldn’t help anyone. Wouldn’t help Francis.

It’s foolish to worry about things like that, Arthur reminds himself, trying to force a sense of confidence over himself. France is a strong nation, after all, they’ve lived through multiple wars and came out on top. The country made it through their own revolution - it would take far more than an attack by the Germans to bring down France. Arthur’s seen the fire that is within him - he’s often times been on the opposing end of it all. If Britain couldn’t beat them in a war, there was no way that anyone else could have. 

It’s a bit further to the estate in which Arthur last remembers Francis living - though a good amount of time has passed since that visit. What if France had moved in the past years, and Arthur wasn’t even aware? He’d hope that France would’ve told him… but then again, it’s not like France is the number one person he’d call if something like that happened to him. Instead of growing frustrated and dwelling on the new hypothetical thrown at him, Arthur makes a mental note that after this war, he’ll visit France more often. Once they’re both okay and out of war, they’ll spend more time together, Arthur will make sure of it.

* * *

 

When he finally sees the house, Arthur does a double take, wondering if this is the same place that he’d once visited - and if this is where Francis is.

The windows are shattered, a large wooden board littered with graffiti bolted over the front door. It’s been raided, he realizes, slowly continuing forward and approaching the door. He glances in one of the broken window panes, treading slowly in case this was a trap of some sorts - if the Germans were just waiting for him to show up here and take him by surprise as well. Through the glass, though, he sees a figure sitting alone at the table - still dressed in a military jacket and a rifle slung over their shoulders.

It’s Francis, he knows it. 

He’s unsure how to proceed at first, knowing that taking the board off of the door would only serve to draw more attention to the house than was necessary. Which is why he’s wrapping his hand in his jacket, before he even thinks about the consequences, and punching through the remaining glass on the window. It falls down around his feet and through the window in shards, and as he lays the jacket over the remaining pieces of broken glass, he pulls himself in through the window. It’s a little too easy, he thinks to himself - which does nothing to settle the worry in his chest. 

As soon he finds his footing on the ground, he feels the cold press of a rifle against the back of his skull, the unmistakable click.

“Haven’t you ever heard that it’s rude to show up without an invitation?” the voice asks, lilting French accent mixed with a wildly grating sound of fear. It’s unbecoming on France, and it leaves Arthur scattered. 

“Haven’t you ever considered it hypocritical to call others rude?” he responds back easily, and only a few words have left his mouth before he hears the gasp, and feels the absence of the gun at the back of his head. 

Arthur slowly turned, his hands still frozen in a show of innocence. “Angleterre. You are here,” is all Francis says to him, before the rifle is thrown to the ground, and Arthur finds himself pulled forward, Francis’ arms wrapping around him. 

It’s not the first time that he can remember being so comforted by the feeling of France’s arms around him - but it is perhaps the first time that he’s not so adamantly opposed to showing it. Francis is solid under his touch, warm and comforting and reminding Arthur that he is still here. Still alive, still with him to the end of the world like they’d promised almost a thousand years ago. Without a word, overwhelmed by the relief and other emotions flooding through him, Arthur presses his forehead against the other nation’s shoulder. Just to relish the few moments and let the anxiety slowly fade away. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to see you,” he finally breathes, and it feels like it’s the first time he’s been able to breathe in days. Under any other situation, it might’ve sounded like a quip - the teasing in his voice. But this isn’t any other situation, and Arthur means what he’s said, the lack of flippancy in his voice audible. He exhales, slowly inhaling, and perhaps he’d just imagining it, but he swears that he can feel Francis tighten in hands in the jacket that Arthur is wearing. 

The dread is slowly subsiding, the nervousness that had crept up into his veins when he’d received the news is fading, and he finally breaks away from the embrace. He can’t remember a time that France had ever looked this rough - even in the throes of battles, he could always see that the other looked sharp and polished, as if he was thriving off of the chaos around them. But now, France simply looks weak, a tired smile on his face as he doesn’t let go of England’s arm. His clothes are covered in dirt and grime, hair covered is ash. There’s dark circles smudged under his eyes and a tightness in his expression, as if he was going to break into pieces with every passing moment. 

And yet, despite all of it, Arthur still somehow finds himself breathless around Francis. He’s still the most beautiful person that Arthur’s ever seen - nothing could change that.

“What happened?” he finally asks. “Are you alright?”

Francis’ expression is tight, an uncomfortable smile on his face. “I am alive, _oui_ ,” he starts, dropping his eyes to look anywhere but at Arthur himself. “But - I have failed the people. My people. I have lost… and now Germany will take me.” Arthur swallows thickly - it’s as bad as he was expecting it to be, but to hear that actually come from Francis’ mouth somehow makes it all the more real. “I am not the man that I once was, Angleterre. I have let them down because I am weak. Perhaps this is - how you say, karma.”

“Stop it,” Arthur said immediately, narrowing his eyes. “You haven’t lost anything, and you’re not **_going_** to lose. If anyone is going to get the pleasure of kicking your frog arse, it’s going to be me.” The reply gets the closest thing he’s seen to a genuine smile out of Francis, and it’s comforting - though the only reason he’s resorted to the usual dry cynicism is because he doesn’t know how to respond to what’s been said. 

France has always been strong - ever since England was a child, it was France who had the power and the respect and it made England want to do the same. And now, to see the way that the nation has deteriorated from a world power to a casualty of this world war, it leaves Arthur fumbling and wishing he was better at being comforting. 

Opening his mouth to begin to speak, Arthur stops as he pulled his hand back from where it had been resting against Francis’ waist. He narrowed his eyes, glancing at the way his fingers are shaded in something red and shiny - and he realized that it’s blood. He presses his fingers together, rubbing them together and understanding what’s happening, his previous worries all but abandoning him in favor of these new ones. 

“You’re injured,” he thinks aloud, his gaze on his hand before slowly moving up to look at Francis’s face. He grabs at his shoulder, turning him slightly and seeing the dark spot staining and seeping into the fabric of his overcoat, just above his hip. Francis looks down as well, as if he needs to see it for himself rather than being able to feel it, and he just shrugs. 

“It happens,” he states, flinching away from Arthur’s hand instinctively. “I’ll be fine.” Arthur doesn’t hear it, though, hands already trying to ease the heavy military jacket from Francis’ frame. Francis is still muttering attempts at reassurance that he doesn’t need help, but Arthur persists, not bothering to give a moment of consideration to his words. Francis folds easily, not putting up the usual stubborn fight that he typically would. He follows Arthur’s movements, pulling his arms out of the jacket and resting them by his side. 

The white shirt that’s on underneath is thin, soaked with sweat and sticking to the bloodied injury along Francis’ back. “Shut up,” Arthur murmurs, pulling at the hem of the shirt, watching the way the fabric pulled away from the wound. There’s a quiet hiss of protect, one that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Francis squeezes down slightly on Arthur’s forearm. It’s a relatively deep gauge, still bleeding slowly. “You need to take care of that,” he replies quietly, before pulling the rest of the shirt up and over Francis’ head. “Go sit down, I’ll patch that up.”

He motions to the couch in the living area, and Francis doesn’t put up an argument this time around, just nodding and starting to make his way slowly over. 

As Arthur is checking through the cabinets, trying to see if there’s been anything left behind after the raiding of the house, he hears the quiet voice.  
  
“Arthur?”

Still somehow after centuries, hearing _that_ name typically feels odd. He’s England - always has been, and hearing his name as something else typically feels foreign to him. But when France says it, it’s - it feels like an old friend calling him his name. Perhaps because he’s known France longer than anyone, and no matter what name he’ll answer to, France is the person who knows him better than anyone. He knows who Arthur is - who England is - regardless of what everyone else it calling him. France has stood with him through centuries

Arthur turns to look at Francis, who’s dragging his heavy overcoat behind him. His brows are drawn together in a pained expression, standing there shirtless and dirty - and perhaps looking the most vulnerable that Arthur has ever seen him. There’s a sense of affection that rushes through him, knowing Francis well enough to know that vulnerability isn’t something either of them wear well - and to see it reflected in his eyes just proves to Arthur that Francis trusts him more than anyone. A feeling that is well-returned. He gives the other nation a small smile, because he hears the unspoken words of gratitude being shared.

“I know,” is all Arthur says, before turning back to what he’s doing. He’s not sure what Francis was going to say - **_thank you for being here, I’m glad to see you, I love you_** \- but no matter what it was going to be, Arthur already knows that he agrees. To all of them. He wouldn’t be here without France, who’d taken care of him and looked after him for centuries before.

So for this moment to come in which France is the one who needs to be taken care of, England’s eager and ready to do the same for his friend. More than he ever was before, he’s ready to step forward to the frontline of this battle and fight to liberate France from the German’s control. He doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow, and he doesn’t know how long it will take for the war to end. But what England does know is that if Germany plans on taking France down, then they damn well better be prepared to take England down as well. There’s no one without the other, and that’s a lesson that the Germans will just have to learn. 

England sighs, pulling a some supplies together, before a weak smile tugs at his expression. That’s something he’s known for a long time, but hasn’t been able to realize until this moment. 

There’s no Arthur without Francis.


End file.
